Down the Water Spout
by Rusted.Diamonds
Summary: When tragedy strikes, Tony is reminded exactly why he doesn't want Peter to be like him. And exactly why he really had nothing to fear in the first place.
1. Chapter 1

"Shadows surfacing in black asphalt

I stumble

Tumble

Consumed within myself-

within my mind

And the shadows grab listlessly

Onto shadows of myself"

The first time I touched alcohol was a goalless decision-or more so a decision to rid all the unattainable goals from my mind; creating an unattainable goal in of itself.

I remember the feel of that cool glass, the condensation through my fingers, creating a ring on the bar counter. A ring that so well resembled my endless thoughts, circling around and around-

"Your parents are dead."-

And around-

"You didn't even say goodbye"

And around-

"You're a terrible son."

And around-

 _"You're smarter than this, Tony!"_

-and I remember leaving that bar after one sip of bourbon, allowing the overwhelming futility of my own actions to encompass me.

That would be the first-and only-time I manage to leave a bar sober. And, ironically the reason for leaving, has now become my reason for drinking.

Admittedly, bourbon was never really my drink of choice, and I can always joke about how the unappealing taste was the reason I left the bar that night. Except no one ever drinks for taste, and no one would ever believe _that_ shitty ass lie.

"Far above

White clouds circle

Freedom-

An essence of incense, a figment

Pigmenting our lives

I strive

For my soul to be free of the shackles I have surrounded it with

That my father has surrounded it with-

 _'But he's dead!'_

And so am I"

Blackouts and sleeping pills maintain my sanity-or more likely allow me to pretend that I am still somewhat sane.

The loneliness is probably the source of the most pain. This nagging voice always reminding me that "humans are social creatures" each time I have a conversation with whirring machines.

My machines.

My creations.

I can whine all I want about how my family is dead, that that's the reason I'm alone. Except I know I'm at fault.

 _I_ push people away.

Because, despite my genius, I've never really understood people. And at least my machines understand me. They're my creations that only I understand, and okay, maybe I'm a little possessive, and have a misconstrued concept on understanding that if I don't understand you, then you can't understand me.

Mutuality.

Superiority.

Whatever the fuck kind of complex it is, I know the real problem is that I don't try.

And I don't let others either.

Pill after pill. Pill to rise, pill to sleep, pill to feel, and pill to numb.

Pill to blind myself from the people who truly care about me.

And pill to blind myself from all the wrongs I've brought upon them.

People want me to propose to Pepper. Telling me how,

"She's waiting. She won't wait forever."

"When are you going to understand that people love you?"

"When are you going to end this godforsaken pity party?"

" _Just Propose! What could go wrong?"_

Except everything could go wrong, and I can't help but think that my own popping pill self couldn't propose with anything other than a giant rock of codeine.

But I guess they just can't understand.

"Innocence

Fleeting, fast

Swinging, flinging

I've never seen myself as innocent,

It is only something others can see within you—

Your eyes

Your smile

This impalpable vulnerability—

Wide eyes

Wide smile

Everything big, and new, and bright—

Until it's not.

And you don't realize until it's too late"

The first time I met him, I felt an overwhelming urge to protect him. This foreign realization that his parents are dead, and his uncle is dead, and all he has left is his aunt—and apparently me.

Me, this gigantic fucking fuck up, and I could never live with myself if he ends up like that. And why doesn't he understand that? That I am not what he should be looking up to.

However, the frustrating innocence that masks the real me from him, is also the very thing I strive to protect. He's so young, and sweet, and sees me as ' _Tony Stark'_ this perfect image of myself that has not been conjured up in a long time. And how can I crush him by showing him that I'm not perfect? That I'm not who he thinks I am? That he needs to find another fucking role model because I sure as hell am not cut out for the job.

But, I sought _him_ out.

And his eyes are so big and filled with wonder, and he hangs off every word I say, and I haven't had a drop of alcohol since I met him. And he makes me better, makes me want to _be_ better.

But, I can't help but marvel in my own selfishness, my using of this child as rehabilitation for my own problems. Do I want to be better for him?

Or is it for me?

Or am I just caught up in the kid's confused wonder?

/Line Break/

"Mr. Stark?"

I exhale deeply through my nose, feeling the carbon dioxide bristle the insides of my nostrils. I squeeze my eyes shut. Turn to the kid. "Yeah?"

"I was just—uh—wondering, ya know, when you'll let me go out as Spider-man again?" His eyes are hopeful, questioning, praying, and I do everything I can to not look at them directly because I know I won't maintain a strong argument if I do. Instead I form a hard stare, masking the small smile that appears when he begins to beg even harder.

"What happened the last time you went out as Spider-man?"

His eyes fall. Curly brown hair covering his face as he looks down at the floor. He doesn't answer. He doesn't have to. We both remember him defying me, getting crushed by a building, crashing a plane, almost _fucking_ dying.

' _But he did it for you.'_

 _Fuck._

I place my hand on his shoulder. "You can go out tonight. _But_ , " I say, cutting off the grin that so quickly forms across his face, "Ironman will be watching."

"Yes, Mr. Stark, of course, Mr. Stark!" He says excitedly, bounding out of the room as if a man newly freed from prison.

' _Well,'_ I muse, ' _that analogy isn't too far off.'_ After the near death incident, I'd been keeping Peter in the Tower during his normal patrol hours, and while this "imprisonment" as it has been dubbed was not so much to the degree of Alcatraz, it wasn't a normal grounding either. Me, putting his super strength and senses to good use in my lab, making him do the grunt work for my projects—something I finally found that was undesirable enough to take away the appeal of working in "Tony Stark's lab."

"Wait up, Kid," I yell when I see he's already suited up, eagerly waiting to jump out the window to the city below. He turns to me. " _Ironman will be watching._ " I remind, gesturing to the screen FRIDAY has set up, relaying Peter's visual input back to me. "If I see anything I don't think you're ready for, I will make it clear to you and you will come immediately back here. Got it?"

He nods emphatically, standing on the ledge and searching my face, trying to gauge whether I'm done with my spiel before he takes off. I chuckle at his baited breath and nod my head, signaling he's allowed to leave, and he lets out a cheer the second he sees it. Quickly swinging himself toward the masses below.

/Line Break/

" _Peter."_

" _Wake up, Peter."_

" _Come on, open up those brown eyes for me."_

The boy startles awake, gasping for breath as he scans his surroundings. "Wh-where?—"

"Shh," I whisper, "you're safe."

"Where am I?" He asks again. His eyes, circles in his head, fluttering around, trying to formulate a setting with the muddled shapes they make out in the dark.

"What do you remember?" I ask instead, trying to divert his attention away from the inevitable.

"I'm in a hospital." He says, and he looks at me. His eyes so open and confused, I can't help but grab his hand, reassuring both myself and him that he's here and he's alive, but, _fuck_ , will he still want to be? I squeeze my eyes shut.

"Yes," I manage.

"Why?"

I search his face.

"You don't remember?"

' _Because I certainly do.'_ My mind replaying images of the event. The crash. Aliens. Me, screaming at Peter to get his "Spider ass over here" or "so help me God." Him, finding May in the debris, ignoring my calls. Crying, so much crying. Blood, so much blood—pooling out of unseen injuries, orifices. She was already dead when he found her, but that didn't stop him from going to her. Screaming for help that would never come. Help that was already far too late.

" _God, if I just didn't let him out."_

" _And then what? She'd still be dead,"_ my mind unhelpfully supplies. I sigh, "You were in shock," I tell him, "the hospital is just a precaution."

He nods, his eyes unfocused and I'm unsure if he even heard what I said. His face, instead, turned, watching the line on his heart monitor jump with each beat.

"She's really dead, isn't she?" He asks, his voice so goddamn small that I have to fight the tears from forming in my own eyes. Have to fight to stay strong for the boy who so clearly right now isn't.

I nod my head, wrapping my arm around him when he breaks. His choked sobs torturing my soul with each gasp and heave, and I hope he finds solace within my now tear soaked chest as that is all I am capable of giving him at the moment.

"Shh," I whisper, "you're okay…

You're gonna be okay."

/Line Break/

I find him with his blanket covering his face; billowing upwards with each exhale, clearly failing in its job of suffocating him. I would laugh at the pathetic display if not for the knowledge that his aunt had just died, that he's exhibiting the beginning signs of depression, that he's only fifteen and has no one left—no one except for me.

I pull the blanket away from him, revealing his flush face, clouded eyes, the scent of my alcohol invading my senses.

"Why?" I ask him, thinking back to me confiscating the vodka from his already slack hand.

He didn't have the luck I did in walking away the first time still sober. But, maybe that's a good thing, maybe that means his thoughts aren't as circular, that they're not as endless, that they're not—

' _He's not me,'_ I have to remind myself. That he's not who I was, and I swear to god he will never be who I am.

He turns away from me, eyeing the blanket.

I want to scream at the unfairness of it all. That this despondent little boy is not the same one I met last year. That these wide eyes are not the ones I'm familiar with. That there's a difference between wide with wonderment and wide with terror; and I can't help but notice the dark circles, chalk skin, chapped lips, and realize just how much he resembles my own reflection.

"Why the fuck do you even care?"

The harsh words break me from my reverie and I notice his eyes are back upon me with a whole new fire inside of them. He's pissed, beyond pissed, and at that moment I don't care if he's pissed at me, or life, or if this anger is just the drunkenness talking, because _fuck_ he's finally pissed.

He's finally feeling something. And I know that that's a step in the right direction.

/Line Break/

"Shadows ripple through the dark water

Murky images form

Creating

Semblances of destitution

of suffering

of pain

The conglomerate causing tears-

Rivulets of brackish water to break through my

Flushed skin

And just as I feel myself begin to sob,

The images disappear

Along with everything that I once knew"

After finding him with my alcohol that first night, we talked.

I told him about my life, about my parents, my torture, my _idea_ that I was capable of handling everything on my own.

That I'm not capable of handling everything on my own.

And neither is he.

And for the first time since meeting this boy, his gaze upon me changed and I noticed as he began to see me as human. Not this _god_ , or _hero_ , but as merely Tony Stark.

And that didn't hurt as much as I thought it would, because this perfect little boy didn't seem to think anything less of me, just viewed me as more accessible.

Relatable.

And _fuck_ , maybe I'm the one putting the kid on the pedestal now. But he's so good and so strong. And I can't help but feel tears the next time I watch his brown eyes crinkle into what I thought was a forgotten smile.

And I can't help but think that _this_ is the happiest I've ever been.

"Wispy clouds hang far above us

And I find myself craning my neck to look at them

Forming images with their contours

Imagining

Dreaming

Thinking about a heaven that I never thought I could reach-

And a smile graces my lips for the first time in forever as a cloud passes by

That looks just like a certain boy."

The name "Peter" eventually becomes less bitter on my tongue, along with the word "Father" and I find myself questioning why I ever chose distance in the first place. Why I thought we would be better off on our own.

Greif seeks greif. Pain seeks pain. We find solace within those who can relate to us. Understand us.

And I question as to why I once believed that no one could understand me.

Because this boy can. And it's a fucking beautiful thing to know that you're not alone. And while we've been through trials, through terrible fucking shit that led to this mutual understanding, I can't help but smile each time a wordless conversation passes between us.

And as I lay in bed, my arms securely around this boy who has seen way too many nightmares, I can't help but think that "father" isn't the right word.

That I'm more of a "dad."

"I've never seen myself as innocent,

And maybe I never will

But I've learned that

Innocence is not synonymous with vulnerability

with youth

with happiness-

That innocence is its own entity

Entirely composed of others exaggerations of contentment

And maybe I'm not innocent

And maybe no longer is Peter

But I'm sure as hell

Content."

It's a slow recovery. But it's a recovery all the same. He's still a long way away from that enthusiastic boy I once knew, hell, I don't know if he can ever return to that boy.

 _But, he's so much better._

And everytime I realize that I want to cry.

 _Because he's so much better than I ever was._

And that's all I ever wanted.

 **Authors Note**

 **Well, I hope you enjoyed this cracked up fic I wrote on my plane ride home the other day. Maybe I'll continue it, maybe not...based on my track record, probably not.**

 **But I do have a long summer ahead of me before I attend Stanford University in the fall. Like** _ **the**_ **Stanford University, and I have to emphasize that because despite me finding out in December I'm still shook...mainly so because everyone else who got in is so fucking successful and have their own books published and research published and I'm just chilling here, writing cracked out fics.**

 **But we all ended up in the same place, right?**

 **Maybe?**

 **I don't even know.**

 **But anyway, If read to this point hope you enjoyed (again) and please R &R! While, I'm hesitant to make promises on continuation, I'd still enjoy feedback...and it may prompt me to write more...or not...whatever is desired.**

 **Thank you!**

 **P.S.**

 **Really hope this is formatted correctly**


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 1

"Pale fingers encircle my wrist

Their bony existence bruising my already aggravated skin

And I am pulled under-

Taken by a force I do not understand

And even less so, control.

And behind, I leave a figure-

An embodiment of something…

Something…

Something that isn't me

Something that never will be me.

For I am suffocating in the cold that holds me under this

 _Thing_

This existence that is not me and never will be

But I am trapped

In the bony fingers that whisper puffs of cold inside me

And I struggle

Shiver

Shudder

And I gnaw and I fight

But my bruises are purple

And my lips are blue

And something has already taken my place."

I breathe in. The bitter air burning my nostrils and a cloud forming with each hot exhale.

I breathe in. Erratic. The cold burning my throat and causing a wet cough to escape from my mouth and I shiver as the ice washes over me.

Drowning me.

Crushing me.

Numbing me.

Inside this ice bath that I've remained since the death of my aunt. The bathtub filled with these ice cubes that render me to a slippery and shaking mess. The shock begins with my senses:

Touch screaming in the burning cold-

Scent strangely numb as the cold causes anosmia-

Taste overwhelmingly copper, my blood pouring over my tongue as I attempt to quell my touch's screams-

Sound, loud, cracking, ice-

Sight, I can't see at all. Eyelids shut, trying to hide from the ice water over my head-

My sixth sense, nonexistent. For I am too weak, too cold to ever be Spider-man again. To ever be _me_ again-

My mind is stabbed with the pain of a brain freeze as I try to muddle my way through the sense of it all and I find myself attempting to washing my body, to relax my muscles, to feel normal; but the ice is melting all around me. And I can never be clean again.

I breathe in.

I can't breathe.

I haven't breathed since I've last seen May and sometimes my oxygen deprived brain believes that I can still hear her voice; and maybe, if I just hold my breath a little longer I can pretend that the pain in my heart is caused by the pain in my lungs and the blood pounding in my ears is the heartbeat of May. Still beating, and living, and breathing…

And why can't _I_ breathe?

My stuttering lungs fail me. Over and over, and the hot tears that roll down my face freeze once they reach the open air, adding to the ice bath of my existence. And how am I supposed to get better when every object of my environment is aiming for me to numb-to shock myself into feeling nothing at all.

"You appear to be in distress, shall I alert Mr. Stark?"

My fingernails curl into the palms of my hands and I relish in the feeling of the warm, sticky blood trickling onto my ice cold skin. My fists begin to shake and I can't help but shove them towards my mouth to smother my sobs. My teeth gnawing on the bit of exposed skin on my index finger until the pain causes it to feel warm again.

"N-No, K-Karen, that w-won't be...n-n-necessary," I stutter between gasps and close my eyes against the unbridled tears as I slam my head into the concrete below. Once. Twice. Three times. And I let out a cry of anguish as I struggle to figure out what will crack first. My skull or the concrete roof beneath it?

"Your body temperature has been rapidly declining, calling Mr. Stark would be ad-"

"Karen, mute."

I breathe in.

I breathe in again.

My lungs feel like they will explode and the last thing I remember are warm hands lifting me out of the ice.

/Line Break/

" _Peter...Peter…"_

The soothing voice voice guides me towards consciousness and I open my eyes to find an image of Mr. Stark blurring into the blinding fluorescent lights behind him. I shut my eyes again with a groan.

"Nu-uh, we need to talk," the voice now-labeled "Mr. Stark _"_ says-arguably less soothingly.

I groan again.

"There's nothing to talk about," I mumble, shifting my eyes down to the white hospital blanket below and I force myself to focus on the warmth spreading from the IV in my arm; piercing the once-thought impenetrable ice surrounding my body.

" _Peter-"_

I look up at him.

I breathe in.

" _I found you on the top of a building, soaking wet and losing blood. Do not tell me that is nothing! You could of developed hypothermia! You could've died!_ _"_

Hypothermia. The state of having an abnormally low body temperature, usually caused by and aggravated by frigid water. If not treated, usually resulting in death.

But I've been in this ice bath for months now and I'm not dead. I'm still trying to figure out why I'm not dead. How long will it take me to die? When will I just _die_?

It takes all of my willpower not to rip the IV from me. I'm too familiar with the cold, I like the cold, I deserve the cold. And why does no one understand that?

"I'm just trying to help," he says.

And, _don't you think I know that?_

 _Don't you see that that's not what I want?_

 _I live in the cold. I am the cold._

"And, I'm just trying to figure out when this all happened...I thought…"

 _What? You thought things were going well?_

"Things were going great...until…"

 _Until you realized how broken I really am…_

" _And, Peter! I'm just trying to help."_

 _Yeah? Well so am I._

 **Authors Note**

 **Continuity who? I don't know her.**

 **I'd consider this more of a chapter 1, the first being a prologue of sorts, and I think that I will continue with Peter's point of view, because as a teenager myself, it is a lot easier to write within the perspective of a teenager...even if I am writing him completely out of character, although I think of this story as a way for Peter to once again find his character.**

 **(However, if Tony's POV is preferred, I could do that too...I enjoy the challenge, yet fear that I write them too similarly, so from here on out switching may get confusing…)**

 **Thank you to everyone who has reviewed already! And you haven't (or if you have and would like to again) please review! The whole reason I write stories like this is for feedback so reviews are greatly appreciated :)**

 **(I'm that nerd who used to ask my English teacher for extra creative writing prompts just so I could write more and I could have an outside opinion, so please, I'm desperate for attention)**

 **Anyway, sorry for the very short and depressing chapter...I will try to write longer chapters in the future (however no promises for happier).**

 **Also if anyway can help me figure out how to properly format poetry on this site? That'd be great**

 **Thank you for reading, and please R &R**


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 2

"Regression...Repression...

Reform...Rebirth…

Reestablishment into this society

That has ruined you

And through the dust you have been

Reduced

To

Through the

Ice

That has

Reproached

you,

You find yourself

Reincarnated.

A second chance, a

Revival

From the once

Regressed

And

Repressed

Spirit

That finds itself unknown to the society that has destroyed it in the beginning, yet

It becomes

Reformed

Reborn

Like the bird, risen from the hot flames, knowing that it's

Restrictive

Ice

Cage

Is only a metaphor."

Ever since waking up in the hospital three days ago, I have yet to be left alone. And I continue to find myself overwhelmed with it all, trapped within this encompassing confliction in which I realize that " _he actually cares about me"_ while simultaneously feeling smothered by the attention that this care has caused; along with this complete inadequateness that couples the knowledge that " _I don't deserve this."_

So I kept to myself mostly. Hiding away in my room. Avoiding. Deflecting. A stream of " _I'm fine."_ plaguing my tongue along with this hope in my mind that maybe he will see right through my lies.

But maybe I don't want him to either.

So, instead, I remain in this constant state of disarray-this desire to be saved, but feeling unworthy of my survival. I lay in bed, one leg underneath the covers, one leg out; attempting to satiate the need to feel warm again, when I've already known this cold for so long.

I hear the door open, its creak mingling with the cracking ice of my existence, and Mr. Stark's voice making itself known in the darkness of my room.

"Lunch is ready."

"I'm not hungry."

He sighs, "You have to eat."

"Yeah, well, maybe I'll be hungry within the next twenty minutes when you come to check on me again," I say, my voice barely containing my exasperation, and "what do you really think I'm going to do, _dad,_ " I continue, adding on the last word as an afterthought. An insult. Pouring as much venom into the word as I can and I realize with his not-so subtle wince that this is the first time I've ever called him that-and that's the thought that makes me stop, and I take a moment to actually look at the man in front of me.

Tired eyes, rumpled hair, overall haggard appearance. He's wearing a _Black Sabbath_ shirt, the faded black speckled with dark grease stains washes his skin out even further and if I look close enough I can see the red rimmed eyes hiding in the shadows of his skin and- _fuck._ I avert my eyes.

 _I'm an asshole._

"M-mr. Stark, I-I didn't really mean that…I just-"

"I know," he says, giving a slight nod as he turns back towards the door, "I'll leave you be," he says, voice clipped. Avoiding. Deflecting.

 _Shit._

I hear the door close and I can't help but symbolize it with the lid of a coffin, sealing me inside. That I've been digging this hole for months now and I'm only just realizing that no matter how far I dig, it will not bring me closer to Aunt May. That I'll only drag other actual living and breathing people down with me.

People who are like Mr. Stark-Tony- _Dad_.

 _Fuck._

I don't know what I'm supposed to call him. I know he sees himself as my dad. I know he wants _me_ to see him as my dad and I can't deny the warmth that word makes me feel, but is that something I want? Do I want the cold to leave?

I sigh.

"FRIDAY?" I ask, subconsciously raising my voice to be heard by the AI, "where did Mr. Stark go?"

"Mr. Stark is in his personal lab, however, he has requested that no one should bother him at the moment."

I raise my eyebrow at that.

"Does he look mad?"

"Mr. Stark does not appear to be in distress."

I smile, the quick upturn of the lips causing them to crack and bleed, reminding me how long it's been since I've smiled.

"Thanks FRIDAY," I mumble, making my way out of bed, and ultimately making the decision that I can't live like this anymore, that my own self-hatred does not need to branch into hatred of others. Deciding that if I don't talk to him now, I never will. ' _And if he's not willing to talk, then I'll just periodically pester him every 20 minutes, see how he likes it,'_ I think, my thoughts not fully following my endeavor towards self-betterment, yet, ' _I can do this,'_ I think as I walk towards the elevator.

' _I know I can do this.'_

Inside the elevator and I have nothing to stare at except for my own reflection and I close my eyes.

"Now or never," I whisper to myself as the elevator doors open directly into Mr. Stark's lab.

I step out.

"I thought I informed FRIDAY of my desire to be alone."

His voice causes me to open my eyes. "Oh please," I say, "if you really wanted to be alone you could've just barred my entry."

He smiles ruefully at me. "What do you want?"

"I just...before, when I said that I didn't mean what I said? I didn't mean that. I mean-not that I meant to say what I said the way I said what I said and I just-"

"I know."

"No, I don't really think you do because I'm not making sense and I just wanted to-"

"Kid," he interrupts, placing his hand on my shoulder, "I know."

"No, I don't think you do," I say with much more conviction than I have at the moment and I step away, out of his grip so that I can look him in the eyes without having to look up.

"I just," I stop, take a deep breath, placing my hands over my mouth, my fingers splayed, indenting the soft skin of my cheeks and puckering my lips.

"You're my dad," I say finally, sniffling slightly as I gaze at the ceiling above me. "And sure, we haven't known each other for that long, and I'm not all to familiar with what a dad would be...or should be, but I know that you're it. And I know I'm an asshole and I say things, but everything has just been so _cold_...and,"

I breathe in.

"There's this ice and I can hear it and it's all around me,"

I breathe in, fighting back tears, warm arms wrap themselves around me, melting the ice, and now I'm drowning.

"I don't want it to be cold anymore," I say, my voice small, "but, I'm not ready for it to be warm either and I'm just...so...scared."

Sobs wrack my body and I feel him nod against me. "I know," he says once again and I feel my fingernails curl into my palms as I scream at him to ' _Stop saying that,'_ my voice heavy and wet.

" _You don't know...you can't know_."

" _Peter,_ " he says looking me in the eyes and I remember. I remember being in the hospital after the death of my aunt, trying to get myself drunk only to realize that my metabolism will never allow it, and that knowledge leaving me empty-feeling robbed of the one coping mechanism I can think of-and Mr. Stark, being there to pick up the pieces. Telling me of his own parents tragic death, of his bouts with alcohol, of his circular thoughts. Telling me that he'll always be here for me, that I can talk to him, that ' _kid, there's no one more fucked up than me.'_ And I laughed at that, thinking that he couldn't be any more wrong, but looking at him now. Seeing the understanding in his eyes and it dawns on me that _he does know._ He knows pretty fucking well.

"Peter," he says again, growing worried at my lack of response, and I stare at him long and hard and-

"I _know_...dad."

 **Author's Note**

 **Lol, what even is grammar anymore?**

 **Proofreading? Not. About. That. Life.**

 **Anyway, this chapter contained a bit more action...so pretty proud of myself for that (because if I could just write pointless, angsty, drabbles all the time I would...but no one really wants to read that, so have to get over my fear of confrontation by writing about it! Yay!)**

 **So please, review! Dialogue is not my strong suit, nor is plot, so this chapter really wore on me, so therefore, comment, review, flame, I don't care. I crave attention.**

 **But, to digress, thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed and is enjoying this story, I love you all!**


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